37
Winters

One thing Nando learnt in London:
you can’t kick a ball round a wet-leafed square
because they’re all locked-gated
for the supra remunerated.
So he took his ball home,
head down on the tube escalator,
past the slanted ads
for deep and comfortable beds

and slalomed round the furniture
in his apartment instead,
the sun setting over an aloof, distant castle
as he ran some simple drills:
round the sofa, then the poof,
lift it over the coffee table.
Bounce it off the empty sideboard
into a basket! The thrill!